Tuesday, February 27, 2007

This woman can be SUCH a DORK. But I love her. Not her blog. She is not her blog. Nor was she ever, as far as I know, a piano.

I’ve been mulling this for a couple of days. I wanted to say something about what Debbie wrote. About the not sticking out. Because I‘ve been thinking about it a lot lately.

Thankyou for including me in a list of people you like to read. But if you think I can just turn it on, you’re very much mistaken. I’m sure the same will prove to be true for most of the people you included. Because you only read the posts we write. You don’t know about the ones we don’t. Or the ones that languish, half written, in the drafts section.

I wanted to say something about this business of having attention drawn to a person. About the ensuing raising of expectations, of responsibility to continuing to meet those expectations. About the way in which we can allow ourselves to become the instruments or victims of other people’s expectations. How these pervading expectations and interpretations of a persons abilities or characteristics can result in a single dimensional view. A caricature. A person partially seen. A kind of shorthand for engaging the senses. A non-dynamic relationship. Between them and us. Us and them. Us and us. Making definitions. An illusion of boundaries to progress. A mirage of walls and fences.

It encompasses so many things for me, not least what Deb said about the pattern of having to separate oneself from the things we have been noted for. Crumpling at being distinguished from others. Keep moving. Momentum to mask something. Avoidance of what. It plays into my fear of putting my child into the school system. Into my current search for new employment. Into my ability to maintain or repair relationships.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Can’t put my finger to the articulation lever.

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About Me

Recently reclaimed by PR industry after more recent background in lobbying and, before that, business journalism. From London and working part time in city but living in sticks. Trying not to pass on to my daughter all that my mother kindly left me. Raging against inevitability. Getting better at it. or not. NEED to rewrite this to say i'm not working at the moment and that there's all kinds of neds stuff going on, but to do that seems really official and final, so a postscript will have to do.